


Bachelor and the Sociopath

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, oneshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7657714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshots I write during writer's block.<br/>(Posted the first chapter as a oneshot before; there's a second chapter now)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All From A Cold Shower

“Sherlock, I’m fine,” John insisted, in a rather contradicting scratchy voice, somewhat dazed, as Sherlock fretted around, checking John’s vitals. “It’s not that big of a deal, really.”

Sherlock’s pokes John’s eye and he slaps the hand away. “I’m a bloody doctor, Holmes, I think I’ll know when I’m sick.”

“Yes, and as a detective, I think I’ll know when you _are_ sick, but when you’re just too prideful and careless to actually admit it,” Sherlock immediately snaps back.

Muttering a curse, John retreats to a petulant silence.

Sherlock continues his study of John. He gives him a long stare in the eyes, squinting (though John couldn’t fathom why) and leans in a bit closer. “High temperature, perspiration, pupils dilated, pulse elevated…” he cocks his head curiously.

 _Yeesh._ John makes a face and looks away. Let's hope Sherlock wouldn’t recognise those symptoms as something other than a cold.

Thankfully (for whose sake, John didn’t know—maybe both) Sherlock doesn’t point this out.

“Definitely a cold,” he declares. “Not a small one, either.”

“Right, you’re going to bed.”

“What? I— _get off me!”_ John yells, face immediately flaming, as Sherlock literally _picks him up_ and strides over to the direction of his room.

John punches Sherlock in the solar plexus. Sherlock visibly flinches, but doesn’t let go of John, only gives him a glare from above. “You’re sick. I told you to stop taking those cold showers.”

John isn’t even surprised he knew. “I’m _fine,”_ he repeats.

The universe must be against him, as that exact moment, John sneezes.

Sherlock’s smiles smugly (which is, frankly, how he usually smiles), and continues walking. He takes out a weird looking can and sprays it around them. Disinfectant?

 _“Sherlock,”_ John says in that pleading, exasperated voice. He used it often.

He peers down at John, seemingly annoyed and amused at the same time. “Oh, would you me to drop you instead?”

He begins to loosen the grip he has around John, and, okay, they were in the middle of the stairway at that point, and Sherlock is abnormally tall—John’s wondering if he’d really rather fall onto the sharp-and-painful stairs than have this go on any further.

But of course then Sherlock actually begins to let go, and John’s instincts kick in and he lets out this mortifying squeaking noisebefore wrapping his arms around Sherlock as tight as he can. Heat rushes to John’s face, but he doesn't loosen his grip, and neither does Sherlock.

After that horrible ordeal, they finally reach John’s room, and Sherlock plops him down.

Now satisfied, Sherlock reaches down and mockingly tucks John in.

John’s contemplating suddenly jumping up and tackling the other to prove he was okay, but his body protest greatly against it and he sighs wearily and sinks into the bed. _Okay, maybe just a little._

He casts a wary glance towards Sherlock, who seems to be pondering whether or not to kiss John’s forehead as well.

Fortunately, he decides against it, and instead walks away. “I’ll be back.”

“Good God, I hope not,” John mutters, and shoves his face into the pillow.

-+-+-+-

“Drink it!” Sherlock commanded, shoving the steaming cup over to John. “300 millilitres. Hurry!”

John groaned. “Sherlock, why do you think this is a good idea?” he mumbled weakly.

There were six, _six_ mugs on the table beside him, all stacked up in a sort of grand, vomit-inducing tower of horror. All emptied from the revolting corpse-water Sherlock had mixed in his lab and was now forcing John to down.

Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise him if he woke up tomorrow with two heads.

“Can’t you just trust me?” Sherlock says impatiently. “I know my way around the lab.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Coming from the man who exploded three beakers over the course of two hours, I don’t think that’s an entirely accurate statement.”

Sherlock looks chagrined. “That was on purpose!”

John smirks. “Right. Like how you poured MSG in your tea instead of sugar?”

Sherlock smiles slyly. “Surprisingly tasteful.”

Pretending to gag, John can’t help but giggle. “Please, no. I think I’d rather drink this.”

“Go ahead,” Sherlock challenges.

Gingerly taking a sip, as really he had nothing to lose now, John gagged and retched—he literally wasn’t even exaggerating. He stares at Sherlock and gestures to the mug disbelievingly. “What is this, concentrated artificial sugar syrup? What the hell did you even put in here?”

Sherlock shot John a glare. “You said the last mug was too bitter—as you did, I might add, with the previous five—and Neotame was the only sweetener which wouldn’t disrupt the chemical process of the—”

“Sherlock, long lectures of what seems to be complete nonsense is the last thing I want to hear right now.”

Sherlock sniffed. “You don’t appreciate science.”

John was about to retort, but his words were soon cut off with a gagging noise as Sherlock wordlessly tipped the mug and force-fed John the remainder of the liquid.

_“Would you stop doing that!”_

Sherlock placed the mug with its neighbours, which were all downed with the same procedure he had just done. “Use the toilet in fifteen minutes,” he said curtly. “And, please, don’t throw it up this time—I doubt you want any more.”

He returned to his lab—John didn’t want to think about what he was doing.

Heaving a long sigh, John spent the next while treasuring the absence of his “doctor” and completely regretting ever trying cold showers.

Honestly, even if he wasn’t sick he definitely would have been now, after all the “medicine” and whatnot Sherlock brewed up.

 _Oh please, God, no,_ was John’s thought process as he heard the footsteps approach him once more. _Are there even any mugs left?_

-+-+-+-

“But, _what? I-How? What the hell?”_ John manages to say. Sherlock looks so smug he could’ve slapped him.

“I told you,” he sang petulantly.

John stands up, awestruck. Nothing, not even a head rush. His throat feels perfectly fine, his balance is even better than usual, and I daresay he felt even better than before. _What is this witchcraft?_

“I… _wow,_ Sherlock. Thanks,” he says, although not suspiciously. Part of him was wondering if this was a hallucination, and the real him was currently in a coma (truth be told, it was a likely possibility.)

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock says cheerfully.

“Oh and by the way, you’re on dish duty.”

John glances at the tower of empty mugs on the side table and groans.

-+-+-+

“Oops.”

Sherlock’s voice is hoarse, but that doesn’t stop him from giving a scolding to the pale-but-healthy John—unlike Sherlock, he might add.

“I gave you special sanitizer for the mugs, why didn’t you use it?”

“The ‘sanitizer’? Oh, you mean the _rock_?”

“Well, aren’t you the _picky little princess?”_ he says in the most annoying voice John's ever heard, but, oh, come on—John has to grin.

Sherlock coughs and casts a scathing glare.

John awkwardly rubs his neck. “Er, yeah, sorry, Sherlock. But I can go get some cough medicine—” his suggestion is cuts off as Sherlock seems to literally convulse with disgust.

“No cough syrup. _None,”_ he says in a deadly quiet voice, eyes fixated on John.

“Erm,” John mutters, confused. He looks away from those piercing eyes. “Well, alright?”

“Go wash the mugs again,” he growls. _“Use the sanitizer.”_

Muttering curses, John reluctantly walks to the kitchen.

-+-+-+-

“As a doctor and your friend, I’m telling you the truth when I say you have to lie down.” There’s actual concern in John’s voice as he feels Sherlock’s burning forehead.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock rasps. He knocks over the beaker he’s holding, and part of the table catches on fire.

“Well, would you look at that—it worked,” Sherlock mumbles quietly.

John, who had grown rather blase to these incidents, grabs a fire extinguisher and kills the fire easily. He’s had experience.

He glares, but it softens as Sherlock bursts into another paroxysm of coughing. “Can you let go of your pride this one time? _I_ got sick. Hell, I let you tuck me in!"

“You’re going to rest, whether you like it or not. Would you like me to pick you up?” John has on a rather scary smile, because he's literally not joking, and he knows Sherlock knows it, too.

Sherlock lets out a wheeze and gives John a long, hard look.

“... Fine.”

-+-+-+-

“What?” John shouts into the general direction of where Sherlock was lying, a smoking test tube in his hand.

Sherlock didn’t even need to come out of his room to see what John was doing—he had apparently installed several security cameras around the flat, and could access them on his phone. John wasn’t even surprised by now.

 _“I said,”_ Sherlock replies, not bothering to conceal his impatience. “Mix it with some Oxymetazoline.”

“I, _the what?”_

“The adrenergic—”

“Stop using fancy words!” John gasps out as the mixture starts to froth.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock mutters. “Have it your way.”

The next time he speaks, John almost drops the beaker.

This sickly sweet voice floats out in a croon. “Okay, Johnny boy,” he says sweetly,  “see that… that _thing_ you’re holding in your left hand? Yeah, the one that’s _smoking?”_ Sherlock loses his falsetto for a second, but gets it back again, and continues in his mock voice. “Would you please reach over to your left and grab the rectangular shaped container right next to that other hollow cylinder—” his putrid voice cuts off, and in comes his real one—“ _Let go of that!”_

John throws his head back with confusion and panic. “What?”

Sherlock groans loudly. “Are you trying to give me amnesia? Put it back right now! No, no, _upright!”_

“OK, screw this.”

John, much to Sherlock’s aghast protest, pours all of the liquid into the sink. There’s a loud hissing noise as the metal is immediately worn away. Oops.

“Glad I didn’t drink that,” Sherlock yells.

John throws the smoking beaker in the sink and dashes over to Sherlock’s room.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he hisses, staring into his bewildered eyes, “I’m going to Shoppers, I don’t care what you’re going to say, but I’m never going into that lab again.”

And with that, he walks out, leaving a gaping-mouthed Sherlock behind him.

Once outside, John lets out a huge sigh and looks up at the gray sky.

If this was going to happen each time one of them got sick, John’ll have to go back into therapy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally a oneshot.


	2. Another Use For Vaseline

John spits out his tea.

_ “What _ —you— _ what in the world?” _ He glares at Sherlock, who gazes back impassively, lets out a frustrated snarl, slams the china teacup on the table with a loud rattle and possibly a crack (oh dear, Mrs. Hudson’s going to have a fit) and leaves the table.

Sherlock, all furrowed brows and pursed lips, looks at the retreating figure. “So how was it?” he queries.

John gets all the way over to the door before he turns abruptly with a little spin and looks at Sherlock with a tight smile.

“Please never make tea again.”

“It was an experiment!” Sherlock says at a shutting door.

He hears rather hysterical laughter that’s cut off with a quiet click.  _ Not a slam, _ muses Sherlock with a faint smile.

He picks up the teacup and takes a sip, ignoring the spill all over the table  _ (oh, you  _ boys,  _ would you  _ please  _ clean up after yourselves?).  _ It’s perfectly fine, he thinks as he takes another sip. Apparently John’s tastes aren’t the same as Sherlock’s.

Sherlock shrugs, and stirs in another pinch of MSG.

-+-+-+-

Creak.

Shuffle.

Step.

_ Bang. _

“ _ Fu _ —!” John cuts off and silently sinks to the floor, cradling the side of his foot  _ (always there!)  _ as he squirms in the darkness. Wincing, he glares at where he now knew the staircase railing corner was  _ (always that!)  _ before getting up and tip-toeing to his destination (being much more careful this time).

He gingerly turns the doorknob to Sherlock’s room, holding a lip-biting-wide-eyed-terrified look as the hinges squeaked and screeched at what seemed to be the volume of a motorbike.

John tilts his head and hears the other’s quiet breathing, and his own gradually stills. 

With a quiet  _ pop,  _ he opens the jar, and he’s holding his breath once again, as he takes out a huge glop of Vaseline.

An old trick, he supposed, but it works, and John wanted payback very much. God, he could  _ still _ taste the MSG. He really should’ve foreseen it, though, honestly… 

He smirks and stifles a giggle as he begins to smear the Vaseline all over the inside doorknob.

He’s almost done when everything goes wrong.

One moment he’s putting some finishing touches (hey, always more than not enough, right?), and he’s just about to leave, anticipating Sherlock to have a rather tedious morning, and the other… 

“Gotcha.”

A pair of arms wrap around him, effectively trapping him in a bear hug. John lets out a surprised and strangled gasp and drops the half-empty Vaseline. 

The light flickers on and Sherlock grins down at him, eyes bright and mischievous, completely devoid of grogginess. “This is why I don’t take you on cases requiring stealth.”

Ignoring this, John scowls, face flushed, and twists around, trying to escape the torturous embrace, but Sherlock tuts, continues holding onto him with one arm, and to the utter amazement, the complete aghast, of John, reaches out with the other and shuts the door.

John squirms pathetically in Sherlock’s death-grip, stares at the shiny slimy doorknob, and feels his last bit of dignity crumbling to ashes.

“There we go,” Sherlock chirps, and lets go of John. 

John stumbles and nearly falls—he grabs Sherlock’s arm, which dips to the side and easily catches him, and steadies himself, breathing heavily. 

Sherlock is smiling pleasantly.

Screw it, John thinks, there’s no dignity left to spare anyways.

So instead of tackling the other and possibly giving Mrs. Hudson even more trouble, John shakes his head and shuffles on his feet. “Shouldn’t have expected it to work anyways,” he mutters sardonically. 

“No, you really shouldn’t have,” Sherlock responds, picking up the Vaseline and tossing it into his huge and rapidly growing pile in the corner of “I’ll-clean-it-later-John-really-I-will”.

John clicks his tongue, and gestures towards the door. “So…”

“Oh, I’m not going to open that door,” Sherlock says suddenly. “You do it, you deal with it.”

John’s stubbornness rears up. “Not a chance.”

“Then you’d better make yourself comfortable.” Sherlock does a smile that would have shamed the Cheshire Cat to tears. “You know how I am,” he says with a mock pity.

And honestly, John does.  _ I swear, he’s like a machine _ .

But, oh no, he wasn’t going to let Sherlock win this round. He crosses his arms and glares, unmoving.

Sherlock nods happily, almost with pride. “Right, then. Good luck.”

-+-+-+-

Sherlock goes back to sleep. John sits down at a random chair (after checking the seat, of course—he had learned that lesson long ago) and waits.

Sherlock wakes up, nods a silent greeting at John, and starts to change. John presses his lips together and averts his eyes slightly.

Sherlock closes his eyes, sitting down on the bed, and his breathing steadies. John scowls, arms crossed, and waits some more.

Sherlock picks up his violin and starts “tuning” it for god-knows-how-long. John covers his ears, suddenly feeling an overwhelming pity for the neighbours.

Sherlock suddenly plays an absolutely gorgeous, heart-wrenching tune. John almost starts crying.

Sherlock brings up his laptop and starts typing. John furtively cranes his neck.

_ I know you’re watching. _ John scoffs and looks away.

John’s butt is numb.

John waits.

-+-+-+-

“Sherlock, dear, I went to the tea shop, would you like some cakes?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson, I don’t like the butter ones,” Sherlock responds immediately, absentmindedly.

“Ooh, I do, Mrs. Hudson,” John pipes up—he really was hungry, anyways. And, God, who cares if it was cheating—John would rather have Mrs. Hudson open the door than to suffer some more hours of waiting.

Instead of a response, there’s a silence.

“Oh, dearie,” murmurs Mrs. Hudson. “Did I interrupt something?”

John feels his face flame. “Oop, nonono,” he stammered, refusing to look at Sherlock. “No. Nothingatall. I would love some butter cakes, please.” 

“Er—alright…” there’s the sound of slippers shuffling on carpet. “I think I’ll just leave them outside here and you can get to them when you want.” 

_ “No! _ ” John hisses. “Please just—” He stops talking as the rapid patter of footsteps quickly fade away. “Dammit!” 

He feels a stab of hunger and looks at the door with longing.

But one look at Sherlock with his smug face and relaxed posture steels his will again. John shoots Sherlock another glare and plops himself down on his chair.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and smirks. Mrs. Hudson’s cry of exasperation from the tea table is heard. John waits.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock shuts his eyes again. Something about his posture indicates this trip to be a rather long one.

John sighs and contemplates jumping out the window. 

After a couple minutes of thinking, John comes to the conclusion that, one, Sherlock’s laptop would shatter the glass the best (I mean he could just open the window but why not leave with a bang), two, he would probably end up in the same position of that guy who kidnapped Mrs. Hudson, so three, he was just going to wait this out.

Another part of him argues that this entire thing is completely-utterly-ridiculously childish. John listens for a while, but then shuts it up at the sight of Sherlock’s (infuriatingly) peaceful look. Bugger off, he tells it. He has nothing better to do today anyways.

John sighs and takes a glance around the room. 

It was big, bigger than John’s, but it truly didn’t seem so from all the useless junk (“They’re _ important, _ John, STOP TOUCHING THEM!”) cluttered everywhere. Conspiracy posters and hastily scribbled notes were spread across the wall. The wall itself was riddled with bullet-pocks. In one place, a small smiley face formed by them.

His gaze moves and catches on an old persian slipper, just one, tucked away in a corner. Upon picking it up, John is disgusted to find (yet another) stash of tobacco. He tosses it into the bin.

“I see you’ve found another secret stash,” Sherlock murmurs, eyes closed.

“Oh, I have no doubt you have fifteen more of those ‘secret stashes’.”

“Seventeen.”

John rolls his eyes. Sherlock smiles and goes back into his mind palace.

John’s curious as to if this is what he usually does all day or if he’s just doing this to annoy him.

John groans. He waits.

-+-+-+-

John bitterly wipes off the Vaseline with his sleeve, regretting everything. 

He walks out, refusing to look at Sherlock, wiping his gross Vaselined hands on his jumper, taking in a deep breath of “fresh” apartment air. 

_ Squish. _

The giggles from behind descend into uncontrollable laughter as John screams with frustration. 

It was just one small prank, really—but as a result John had 1. Become the victim of the prank he had made, 2. Wasted half a day sitting in Sherlock’s room, and 3. Stepped on  _ those damn tea cakes _ .

“I’ll never prank you again,” John mourns, peeling off his socks.

Sherlock lets out one final laughs, leans on the side of the door, raises an eyebrow, and smirks. “Oh? I didn’t think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this was a oneshot but I lied.  
> I'm probably not going to update this for quite a while (if at all) but who knows; maybe I'll get some inspiration.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello~  
> This started as a oneshot but I got another idea sooo  
> Please leave a comment!


End file.
